CHAPTER TWENTY
Bobby's hands shook as he pulled one end of the red tie through the loop. He sighed, and carefully finished tying the tie. He walked to his closet, pulled out the suit's jacket, and slipped it on. He walked into the bathroom and stared into the mirror. The image reflected back at him looked almost normal. The salt and pepper hair—still more pepper than salt—was neatly brushed and newly cut. The hollow cheeks were freshly shaved. The dark blue suit paired well with the pale blue shirt and the crimson tie. Only a closer look revealed the shirt and jacket hung loosely on his body, and his eyes were surrounded by deep, dark circles that spoke of sleepless nights. Bobby put on his sunglasses. With the glasses hiding his eyes, he looked professional, calm, and steady—everything he didn't feel. He took off the glasses and placed them in his inside suit pocket. He'd wear them as much as he could, and the rest of the time he'd avoid looking directly at anyone, a practice he was very close to perfecting.
He opened his medicine cabinet and studied its contents. It was going to be a long and difficult day, and he needed to plan accordingly. He opened the small tin box that previously held Altoids. He'd discovered it was the perfect place to hide his pills. It was small enough to slip into a pocket, but large enough to carry a good supply of medications. When he pulled it out and removed a pill from it, most people—even detectives and doctors—thought he was getting a mint. Bobby carefully examined the row of bottles on the shelves. He wished he knew exactly how this day was going to go, but Jack McCoy and the other prosecutors couldn't tell him when or how long he would be in front of the grand jury. He considered how much and what medication he should take. The oxycontin controlled the pain efficiently and didn't create too great a fog in his head, but it could make him too relaxed and comfortable. It wouldn't create the best impression if the prosecution's key witness against Thomas Linley and Mark Caldwell appeared before the grand jury in a state of bliss. Vicodin offered some of the same benefits, but Bobby had found that it upset his stomach if he hadn't ate enough, and these days he rarely ate enough. He strongly suspected this would be a day where he might not eat anything. But Alex was picking him up to take him to court, and she'd make sure he'd get something in his stomach, even if she had to force it inside of him.
He leaned on the sink. Alex, he thought, had to know, or at least have strong suspicions. She had to suspect that he got through the days and nights using a carefully calculated and procured combination of drugs and occasionally alcohol. He still suffered from some physical pain—enough that his requests for painkillers had some basis and conviction—but he was far past the point of telling himself that they were just for his body. They were for his head. He'd created an intricate and ingenious system of getting prescriptions from several doctors and a schedule of ingestion that hid his self-medication from everyone. Everyone, he thought, but Alex. She was too good and experienced of a detective, and she knew him too well, not to pick up on at least some of the signs. Every day he expected her to challenge him, to leave him. Every night that he went home and she was still his partner he said a prayer of thanksgiving just before he took the sleeping pill that gave him a few hours of unconsciousness. She was so much stronger than him. She hadn't required rescuing when she was taken. She'd escaped. But every time he was in trouble—even when he got himself in trouble—she'd rescued him.
He was back to work in a limited way. He was on desk duty, and concentrating on the Sebastian case. He was an expert, after all. Not only Declan Gage's protégé, but Sebastian's only known survivor, although there were many moments when he wondered if he'd really survived. At least his new nightmares had supplanted his ones of his time in Tates. His doctors told him that telling his story would help him. When Jack McCoy told him that he'd get to tell his story before the grand jury, the DA seemed pleased to offer Bobby the opportunity. Bobby had smiled wanly. He'd told his story so many times—to the Major Case and SVU detectives in charge of his case; to the FBI agents; to Dr. Huang and other doctors whose names her forgot as soon as the interviews ended; even, eventually, to some of the other patients at Bellevue—and he was tired of it. Aside from repeating his story, he followed Linley and Caldwell's paper trail and tried to find links between them and unsolved murders and disappearances. He had no direct contact with either man, although Bobby occasionally heard rumors suggesting Linley wanted to speak to him in exchange for information on some victims. If such a deal was in the works, Bobby knew nothing about it. He suspected Huang, Ross, and especially Eames were protecting him from such discussions, and a good deal more.
Bobby stared into the cabinet. Eames would arrive soon, and he had to pick out his supply before then. He decided to take one more of everything he thought he might need. If anyone did notice, he could blame the stress of the day. Whatever happened, he wouldn't have to face the gauntlet of curious looks and averted eyes he encountered every morning at Major Case. Ross tried to be kind to him. Bobby knew the Captain could have prevented him from working at all, and instead Ross went out of his way to be flexible. But Ross couldn't look at him directly. Even Alex, for all she did for him, avoided Bobby's eyes.
"They're ashamed of me," Bobby thought. "And others…If they know what happened to me…What must they think…"
He stared again at his reflection. Sometimes, usually around three thirty in the morning when the sleeping pills wore off, he wondered why he kept going, why he rose from nights of too little or no sleep to drag himself to a job where he faced so many terrors. Sometimes, usually around three forty in the morning, he wondered why he didn't answer the call of the pills in the cabinet or of his gun locked in the small, steel strongbox on the top of his bookshelf. That morning, as he lay staring at the ceiling and calculating the minutes until he could take another pill, he thought one reason was a desire for some justice for Linley/Sebastian's victims. With further thought, he concluded it was because the job gave at least some justification for his life. But he knew he came back and kept going back to work and stayed alive for Alex. In spite of his certainty that she was ashamed of him, she was the reason.
He said nothing about these thoughts to anyone. With his doctors, he projected—or at least hoped he projected—a cheerful resilience. He dazzled his surgeons, other doctors, nurses, psychiatrists, even other patients with his remarkable physical recovery and seeming mental comeback. He'd deceived the other patients at Bellevue by listening and commenting on their stories, doing so well that the psychiatrists commented on it. In the process, he'd managed to effectively turn the spotlight away from his condition. It helped in obtaining drugs. He reluctantly asked for them, telling each doctor he felt he was at the limits of what he could stand. It helped that at first he was extremely reluctant to take advantage of any drug, making his pleas ring true. Huang was the one doctor he thought he wasn't deceiving, and every day he expected the psychiatrist to confront him. He also feared the day that one or more of his doctors spoke too deeply about him to another. He knew that would destroy his carefully constructed delivery of his medications.
He had several backup plans ready. Some involved other doctors; some involved ties going back to his days in Narcotics. And there was always his gun. He had used those old ties two times to supplement his prescriptions. It was during one of those, as he stood shivering in an alley handing a roll of money to a small time dealer who owed him for a break, that Bobby knew he was in deep trouble. He was an addict, and even as his mind created excuses—some pretty good ones—it swatted them away. His only comfort was that he was at least a functioning addict.
He scored a lot on those two occasions, including some coke and heroin. He used these sparingly, so sparingly that considerable amounts were still locked away in that strongbox with his gun. The coke was a wonderful pain reliever, but he hated its high. It made everything too real. But the heroin—the heroin was heaven. It not only destroyed the pain, but it kept him from caring about the pain, or anything else. It wrapped him in a soft and warm blanket and took him away from the world. It was so wonderful that he used it only as a last, desperate measure when his only other option really did seem to be eating his gun.
"I'll bet," Bobby thought as he carefully and precisely filled the mint tin. "Tonight I'll need the strong stuff…" He looked at all of the pills for a moment. "No…I have to testify…If I don't, others will…And Alex…Alex would find me…I've got to get through this case…"
He closed the tin, made sure it was securely shut, and placed it in his pocket. "Some day," he thought. "It'll all fall apart…Someone will find out…You'll get caught…You'll take too much of the wrong thing…You'll mess up the schedule or a dose…Your liver will fall apart…Or you'll lose your mind…Then they'll all know…You're not any sort of hero…You're a hollow man…Please…Please…Let me get through the case…Please…Let me hurt Alex as little as possible…"
There was a knock on his door. He knew it was Alex, a few minutes early as usual. He straightened his tie, smoothed his hair, and squared his shoulders. He walked to the door.
END CHAPTER TWENTY
I decided not to go into details about Bobby's time at Bellevue and his getting back at work, all though I did have a couple of chapters on that. Also, my knowledge of drugs and their effects is limited to reading Wikipedia and two days taking generic Vicodin after getting my wisdom teeth out.